


From Hedonism to Heroism

by adayofjoy



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Happy Ending, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Mutual Pining, Napoleon is excessively fond of capes, Oblivious spies in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-14 09:53:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14767343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adayofjoy/pseuds/adayofjoy
Summary: ‘Has anyone ever told you that you are remarkably misanthropic for a superhero?’ Napoleon asked curiously.‘Yes,’ Red Peril replied curtly.Napoleon tried and failed to conceal his smile.Alternate summary: A self-indulgent Napollya superhero AU.





	1. First Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> This is essentially a self-indulgent Napollya superhero AU that I have been tinkering with for quite some time. It features pining, superhero shenanigans, differing opinions on capes, and our two favourite oblivious spies. 
> 
> The lovely Antiquity has given her seal of approval for this story so I’ve decided it’s finally time to unleash it. I will upload this in chapters, but the story had already been completed. The rating is for the final chapter, which contains some explicit content. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the story!

Napoleon officially meets Red Peril for the first time in Venice.

He suspected that the ludicrously brawny superhero had been tailing him for some time, but Napoleon had always been elusive. He had made a name for himself through his ability to soar over rooftops and scale walls with ease. When he put his mind to it, Napoleon could be as intangible as smoke or as slippery as a shadow. That was his trademark, after all.

At the strike of midnight, Napoleon donned his customary outfit. He affixed his eye mask and draped his ink dark cape over his shoulders before lowering himself from the window of his hotel room.

In theory, the heist should be a simple extraction. In and out in less than thirty minutes.

Illya and Gaby were under the impression that Napoleon was entertaining the exquisite blonde he had spent the whole evening flirting with at the opera, a fortuitous misapprehension that meant they would not bother knocking on his door until at least midday.

Silvery tendrils of mist wrapped around lampposts and slithered along the canals as Napoleon used his rope gun to gracefully glide over the tightly packed buildings. Exhilaration and a fierce rush of joy pumped through Napoleon’s body as he sailed through the night, the cold air stinging his cheeks as he traversed the city using its rooftops. He could feel his pulse pounding in his fingertips and adrenaline firing through his veins.

Unlike others, Napoleon had not been born with the gift of flight, but he still felt at home suspended in the sky. For a wildly ecstatic moment he felt like Icarus but devoid of the ill-fated downfall.

His target for tonight was the private collection of Umberto Barbarigo, a member of a wealthy family who tenaciously clung to their once aristocratic roots. At the opera earlier in the night, Barbarigo had stupidly boasted of an art hoard to rival any other in Italy.

Like his French namesake, Napoleon had already planned to pillage the artistic delights of Venice, but he now considered it his duty as a devotee of all things cultural once he overheard Barbarigo refer to his priceless da Vinci sketches as “nice, but would look better with a splash of yellow.”

Everything was going to plan during the first ten minutes of the operation—Napoleon had detonated a smoke bomb in the stairwell to distract the guards, and he had emerged undetected in Barbarigo’s private gallery, ready to pilfer its offerings— until a bloodcurdling scream punctured the night.

With a weary sigh, Napoleon gently placed the Rembrandt back on its hanger and leaned out of the window. Napoleon had to peer through the mist, aided only by a flickering street light. He could dimly distinguish the figures of two burly men wrestling with a woman who was futilely trying to free herself from their grip.

Why did this happen every time?

In Istanbul his heist had been interrupted by an unfolding bomb threat. If he hadn’t dismantled the bomb and incapacitated the perpetrators on the spot then Napoleon, alongside many of the inhabitants of Istanbul, would have been killed.

Napoleon had been forced into action out of pure self-interest.

Napoleon had not planned to end up in the tabloids, but his fame blossomed almost overnight. Once he saw the photographs he had to admit that he looked very striking in black and white. And he was pleased to see that his cape certainly added an air of theatricality to an otherwise plain costume.

Napoleon had written off the entire event as an unfortunate hitch in an otherwise fool proof heist.

But then it kept happening.

In Venezuela there had been the kidnapping outside the Galería de Arte Nacional. The child’s shrieking was drawing too much attention and Napoleon had intervened as a matter of pragmatism, of course.

In Florence, Napoleon unsuspectingly found himself demolishing the efforts of an international drug syndicate when a drop was organised outside the Uffizi Gallery in the dead of the night.

Then while on a mission in the Loire Valley, Napoleon somehow thwarted a plot to assassinate a visiting Spanish diplomat when raiding the would-be perpetrator’s chateau.

The past five months had forced Napoleon into unwittingly performing a stream of good deeds that would utterly devastate his reputation as an egotistic rake were anyone to learn of them. Thank God he always wore a mask.

The press could not get enough of him. Countless grainy photographs of Napoleon gliding across the skyline with his cape unfurling behind him had appeared in international newspapers. Radio programs ran regular segments analysing his deeds. He had graced the cover of more than one women’s tabloid and he was a regular feature on the televised nightly news. And perhaps most extraordinary of all, Napoleon had recently learned that he had a cult of fans in Idaho who made replicas of the costume that he always wore on heists.

The whole charade was simultaneously the best and the worst thing that could have ever happened to his ego.

Napoleon had read dozens of articles speculating as to his true identity. The fascination surrounding his secret persona did not appear as if it was likely to abate any time soon. Somehow, without any conscious effort on Napoleon’s part, he had become branded as a superhero.

Napoleon couldn’t deny that he found the notion amusing but for the most part he was simply irritated that his unintentional foray in heroism had been preventing him from successfully completing a heist for the past five months.

He was becoming thoroughly frustrated.

Napoleon was a thief at heart. He derived pleasure from laying claim to beautiful things. He had never indulged in delusions of valour, aside from a brief moment of lunacy when he enlisted in the army at seventeen, nor did he have any interest in saving those who were too foolish to help themselves.

The only advantage to the disastrous affair was that the CIA would never trace Napoleon back to the strange, cloaked figure responsible for performing numerous acts of salvation across the globe. After all, nobody had ever accused Napoleon of possessing an altruistic nature.

With another histrionic sigh that was entirely for his own benefit, Napoleon lowered himself from the window, scaled the wall, and darted down the cobbled alleyway to rescue the still screaming woman. With a series of unnerving cracks, Napoleon dislocated the shoulder of one of the attackers and swiftly broke the wrist of the other. He didn’t possess Illya’s frankly disconcerting brute strength but Napoleon was strong and graceful. He was adept at fighting when the occasion called for it.

As the two men fled into the shadows, emitting muffled groans of agony, Napoleon helped the quivering woman to her feet.

‘Is it you?’ she asked in Italian, clutching at Napoleon’s cape with quivering hands, ‘Ombra?’

Napoleon repressed the urge to sigh at the use of the moniker and smiled charmingly instead.

‘The very same,’ Napoleon replied lowly as Barbarigo’s guards stumbled out onto the street, coughing as dark wisps of smoke curled behind them. One of them spied Napoleon and appeared to reach inside his jacket for a gun.

‘I believe that is my cue to leave,’ Napoleon said smoothly.

The woman’s eyes were wide as Napoleon delivered a gallant kiss to the back of her hand.

Napoleon turned on his heel and pulled his rope gun from his belt and fired a copper-bright line of cable at the closest building while he ran. Within moments he was gliding over the skyline of Venice with its network of narrow, gondola-strewn canals and tethered piazzas, everything gleaming wetly in the new light. The pale clouds of mist clinging to Napoleon’s feet slowly started to dissipate.

Napoleon stood on a rooftop overlooking the domes of St Mark’s Basilica as weak winter sunlight started to bleach the sky of its colour. The electric delight that he always felt after swinging through the air, held aloft by a taut stretch of cable alone, was considerably diminished by the reality of yet another botched heist.

He had _held the Rembrandt in his hands_ , for Christ’s sake. He had been so close to pulling it off.

As he gazed morosely at the crucifixes adorning the church, Napoleon momentarily considered that he might be cursed with a saint-like character. But this thought quickly evaporated when he recalled the decidedly lecherous fantasy featuring Illya that Napoleon had entertained while in the shower the previous morning.

Napoleon was startled from his thoughts when Red Peril landed on the roof beside him soundlessly.

Even when presented with a demonstration of the superhero’s powers of flight, Napoleon made a point to appear disinterested. Under the surface, envy twisted his stomach into knots.

‘I was wondering when you were going to show up,’ Napoleon said casually as he turned to face Red Peril.

Red Peril’s true name was unknown to the general public, but the escalating tensions of the Cold War had branded the superhero with a title that stuck. Although he wore an eye mask similar to Napoleon’s, Red Peril’s disgruntlement was evident in the disdainful twist of his lips and the scrunching of his fair eyebrows.

‘You knew I was following you?’

There it was—the cool, clipped tones that Napoleon had heard numerous times on the television and the radio over the years: the voice that was the pride and joy of the Soviet Union.

Napoleon made a point of slowly trailing his gaze along Red Peril’s body, lingering on his muscular thighs and the broad expanse of his shoulders. True to his nickname, Red Peril was clad in head-to-toe crimson fabric. Napoleon had never thought that there would be a day when he would be grateful for the creation of spandex but these were strange times.

‘I presume you wear that colour in a ludicrous display of patriotism rather than any attempt to actually camouflage yourself,’ Napoleon replied with an insolent grin.

Red Peril clenched his jaw.

‘I hate to tell you but you are about as difficult to miss as the midday sun.’

‘Who are you? What do they call you?’ Red Peril demanded irritably.

Napoleon bit his lip and sauntered towards Red Peril. They were standing so close that Napoleon could feel the warmth seeping from the superhero’s body and could sense the tension coiled in his shoulders. Napoleon’s eyes lingered brazenly on Red Peril’s impossibly powerful arms, which were famed for dismantling buildings, stretching steel, and prying lives from the jaws of death.

Napoleon felt desire alight molten hot in his stomach. He allowed his gaze to snag on the superhero’s parted lips before making eye contact. Red Peril’s fists were curled but he remained immobile.

‘They call me many things,’ Napoleon replied in a practiced flirtatious tone that had granted him the reputation for being able to entice even the most virtuous mark. ‘The terms handsome, brilliant, and extremely well-endowed have all been applied but you can call me Shadow.’

Red Peril rolled his eyes, evidently deeply unimpressed by Napoleon’s bravado.

‘You are clearly very new to this,’ Red Peril articulated in a bored tone.

‘If by “this” you mean being accosted by strange men on rooftops, I can assure you this isn’t my first time.’

‘What I meant,’ Red Peril responded icily, ‘is that you are a terrible superhero with a terrible costume to match.’ He eyed Napoleon up and down with a gaze that felt decidedly critical rather than appreciative. Red Peril’s lips twitched upwards in a condescending smile. ‘Also, your cape is ridiculous,’ he concluded bluntly.

Napoleon found himself curling his fingers into his cape defensively.

‘A lot of people like my cape,’ Napoleon objected. ‘In fact, I’ve been told it makes me look rather dashing.’

Napoleon thought that Red Peril’s expression was insultingly dubious.

‘Besides, when else would I have the chance to wear a cape in everyday life? I would be a fool not to seize the opportunity.’

Napoleon gestured towards Red Peril’s costume, ‘And I must say you’re being unfairly judgmental for someone dressed like a giant tomato so forgive me if I don’t take your sartorial advice to heart.’

Red Peril scoffed. The tips of his ears had turned pink.

‘You should know that you are not as sneaky as you like to think you are, _Shadow_ ,’ Red Peril retorted mockingly, ‘and your cape makes you look like a giant moth flapping around as if trying to escape from bath.’

Napoleon raised his eyebrows incredulously. He had never been so insulted. He thought he might be in love.

‘Are you always this rude to people you’ve just met? Or am I special?’

Red Peril levelled Napoleon with a glacial glare. He walked to the edge of the rooftop and propped his foot on the ledge.

‘Watch your back, Shadow,’ Red Peril barked before plummeting from the roof, only to wheel through the air and glide over St Mark’s Basilica, his golden hair glinting in the fledgling light.

‘Well damn,’ Napoleon muttered to himself, undeniably impressed by the dramatic exit and the delightfully prickly superhero.

He was obviously developing a predilection for short-tempered Russian giants.


	2. Rendezvous in the Louvre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy some more superhero shenanigans!

Two weeks passed before Napoleon met Red Peril again in decidedly humiliating circumstances.

He was dangling upside-down in a net while the Louvre’s alarm system blared at a painful decibel. Ten minutes earlier, Napoleon had successfully dismantled the explosive attached to a Géricault when the utterly hapless security guard had stumbled into the laser detectors at the rear of the gallery.

Napoleon was about to extract his CO2 laser, pilfered from Illya and wedged into his back pocket, when he heard a derisive snort.

‘Is this what you call stealth, Shadow?’ Red Peril asked disdainfully. ‘Excellent job. Perhaps you can soon upgrade your name to Invisible Man.’

Napoleon exhaled a long sigh.

‘This is merely a minor mishap,’ Napoleon responded blithely as he extricated the laser from his pocket and sliced through the netting. Red Peril’s body was rigid and his gaze was disconcertingly intense.

‘That is a CO2 laser,’ he observed sharply.

Napoleon refrained from rolling his eyes as he dropped to the floor. He sprang up from his crouch and met Red Peril’s hard glare. ‘I’m aware. How perceptive you are, Peril.’

Napoleon quickly set about deactivating the alarm concealed behind an exquisite Caravaggio. When he completed his task, Napoleon ambled through the gallery at a leisurely pace, pointedly ignoring the seething figure of Red Peril behind him. Napoleon lingered to admire a Raphael painting that he had always favoured. Perhaps if his next visit was more fortuitous he might be able to add it to his personal collection.

Red Peril appeared beside Napoleon, his huge body casting a long, thin shadow that stretched to meet the Greek sculptures at the base of the gallery.

‘Do not call me that,’ Red Peril growled.

Napoleon had been calling Illya by the nickname for months now and it had slipped from his mouth unbidden as he squabbled with the similarly irascible Russian superhero. He recalled how startled Illya had looked when Napoleon had sardonically branded him with the superhero’s moniker. The reminiscence made Napoleon smile.

Napoleon swished his cape like a Spanish matador as he gave a mockingly contrite bow.

‘My apologies. Would you prefer the full title of Red Peril in future? Or have we progressed to first names?’

He eyed the muscular expanse of Red Peril’s chest and the sharp cut of his jawline.

‘I could bear to be better acquainted with you, as I’m sure you’ve noticed,’ Napoleon said in a low voice that was accompanied by a suggestive smile.

The Winged Victory of Samothrace gracefully extended her wings behind Red Peril. The effect was breathtaking and undeniably imposing, morphing Red Peril into a godlike figure, shrouded in shadows. The part of Napoleon that was ever interested in acquiring beautiful keepsakes found it impossible to look away.

‘Where did you get CO2 laser?’ Red Peril growled. ‘It is only issued to top KGB agents.’

‘I stole it,’ Napoleon replied, just for the thrill of seeing the shock flit across Red Peril’s face. He did it so rarely now that sometimes telling the truth gave Napoleon a peculiar, almost illicit, rush. ‘But I’ll give it back eventually.’

‘You are a thief,’ Red Peril surmised coldly. ‘The rumours of your abilities are happenstance.’

‘Not all of the rumours are false, Peril. I am quite gifted,’ Napoleon argued with a roguish smile. ‘I will admit that I prefer hedonism to heroism, but unfortunately my pious nature gets in the way of my more devious exploits.’

The darkened gallery was eerily silent as Napoleon pocketed the CO2 laser. Red Peril’s narrowed gaze followed the movement.

Despite the shadows, Red Peril’s eyes were still the most peculiar shade of glacial blue, like a pond in midwinter coated in fragile ice.

‘Why are you here, Peril? Not that I’m not delighted to re-establish our acquaintance.’

Red Peril huffed and appeared as if he were deliberating whether or not to bother answering Napoleon at all. When Napoleon’s gaze started to stray towards the treasures adorning the gallery walls, Red Peril begrudgingly replied, ‘There was bomb threat.’

‘I’m aware,’ Napoleon replied, ‘I’ve just finished dismantling it.’

With feigned indifference, Napoleon extracted the remaining husk of the bomb from his tool belt and dropped it at Red Peril’s feet. Bombs were getting smaller these days and whoever had instigated the threat had access to some remarkable technology. A tangle of yellow and red wires twisted around the metal. It appeared rather innocuous, which belied the monumental damage it could have caused if activated.

Napoleon had just finished neutralising the bomb before the jumble of netting had swept him up into the air.

Red Peril cast a cursory glance at the discarded shell. ‘You did not catch the perpetrator, Invisible Man,’ he said coldly, ‘so they will surely strike again.’

‘I prefer Shadow, Peril. And I would be remiss if I failed to point out that you also did not capture the perpetrators. I somehow recall an adage about a pot and a kettle that seems relevant here...’

Red Peril flexed his jaw. Napoleon decided to take pity on him, lest he experience Red Peril’s legendary brute strength first-hand.

‘I have something that might be of interest to you, Peril,’ Napoleon said smoothly as he extracted a weathered strip of vellum from his tool belt. ‘I found this on the ground towards the back of the gallery, just beyond the detonation range. It’s quite old. It’s not exactly my field but I’d date it around the early 1600s.’

Napoleon watched Red Peril turn over the vellum in his gloved hands, his eyes narrowed as he absorbed the inscription.

‘Memento mori,’ Red Peril read aloud, his brow furrowed. ‘Remember that you must die,’ he translated.

‘Yes, it seems our villains have a taste for the macabre,’ Napoleon replied grimly. ‘You might also want to take a look at these.’

Napoleon passed Red Peril the stack of Polaroid photos from his tool belt. Red Peril accepted the photographs with a wary glance. He flipped through the grainy images, his eyes narrowed as he scanned the copied reams of letters and numbers framed in the small white squares.

‘Where did you get these?’

‘I found one in the museum curator’s office,’ Napoleon answered. ‘He received a letter last Tuesday, which threatened to unleash a bomb within the gallery at midnight on the twelfth. He ignored it, so he clearly wasn’t intelligent enough to recognise the code for what it was.’

Red Peril was staring at Napoleon. Something like understanding darted across his exposed features before being buried beneath the usual layers of distrust and cool impassivity.

‘It seems as if our villains like to play cat and mouse,’ Napoleon continued, ‘because the rest were sent to the Parisian police. I stole most of the stack from their headquarters earlier today. So you are correct, Peril. Another bomb will be detonated within the next twelve days.’

‘Did you use a cipher for this?’ Red Peril asked as he waved the photographs in Napoleon’s direction.

‘No cipher was necessary,’ Napoleon replied with a raised eyebrow. ‘I must say I’m surprised. Do Soviet superheroes no longer receive KGB training in code breaking?’

Red Peril frowned but didn’t respond as Napoleon grabbed the photographs from his hands and spread them along the base of a nearby sculpture of Demeter, elegantly posed with her arms held aloft towards an unseen sun. Napoleon flicked through the photographs and shuffled them until they were in correct order. He sensed that Red Peril was watching him closely as he set out the squares in a line along the marble.

‘See here,’ Napoleon said as he pointed a finger to the closest Polaroid. ‘It’s quite simple, really. The numbers are coded latitude and longitude points arranged using a Fibonacci sequence. If you follow the pattern to this final clue,’ he pointed to the last photograph in the sequence, ‘you can see that our villains will set off their next bomb in—’

‘Cologne,’ Red Peril interrupted. Napoleon was impressed.

‘It’s nice to see that the Soviet Union doesn’t just keep you around for your good looks, Peril. Now will you deactivate this one or shall I?’

Red Peril stared at the line of photographs and raised his face to meet Napoleon’s eyes. His gaze was incisive and Napoleon found himself trying to recall if Red Peril had X-ray vision or whether that power belonged to one of the Portuguese superheroes whose name he always struggled to recall.

‘Why are you doing this?’ Red Peril asked. Suspicion was threaded through his tone.

‘Saving people from being murdered by unknown psychopaths? Would you believe that I’m like Oliver Twist, Peril? A thief with a heart of gold.’

‘No,’ Red Peril replied with insulting alacrity. But he bared his teeth in a brief smile that left Napoleon momentarily dazzled.

‘Why do you do this, Peril?’ Napoleon countered. ‘Did the KGB order you to disable the bomb or are you here on your own time?’

Red Peril glanced away and raised a hand to rub against his collarbone.  
He looked back at Napoleon and titled his head, considering. Napoleon felt uncomfortably exposed, despite his mask.

‘I was not ordered to come here,’ Red Peril admitted somewhat awkwardly.

‘Are you a fiend for culture, Peril?’

Red Peril snorted. ‘If I were not here to disable bomb,’ he flitted his eyes back towards Napoleon, ‘or if you were not here to do it, then hundreds of American tourists would be blown up if it detonated tomorrow. They are often too stupid to save themselves so I step in when I can.’

Unwelcome tendrils of admiration twined themselves around Napoleon’s ribcage as Red Peril shrugged dismissively, layering nonchalance over genuine concern.

‘Has anyone ever told you that you are remarkably misanthropic for a superhero?’ Napoleon asked curiously.

‘Yes,’ Red Peril replied curtly.

Napoleon tried and failed to conceal his smile.

‘Should we reconvene in Cologne, Peril? From what I can tell from analysing the codes, the next bomb should be set to detonate on Christmas Eve at midnight, just in time for all of the shoppers at the Christmas markets to be killed.’

Red Peril held Napoleon’s gaze for a moment, his expression contemplative, before nodding slowly.

‘Compile what research you can and we will meet on the twenty-fourth,’ he ordered.

‘Should we exchange gifts? Cologne will be very cold. Perhaps you could knit me something, Peril.’

Red Peril rolled his eyes.

‘Don’t be late,’ he warned.

Red Peril glanced disparagingly at Napoleon’s cape one last time before turning on his heel and striding from the gallery, his steps echoing distantly on the parquet floor. Napoleon stared at his retreating figure, his heart still beating fast and a pile of coded photographs clutched tightly in his hands.

 

*

Napoleon savoured his coffee the following morning, silently willing the bitter blend to perform a restorative miracle on his exhausted body.

He glanced out the window of the hotel dining room. The elegant lines of the Arc de Triomphe were visible in the distance, foregrounded by the elongated expanse of the Champs-Élysées. The wonderfully Parisian scene was surrounded by the usual flurry of cars and heedless tourists wielding bulky cameras.

Napoleon had returned to his hotel suite as the first rays of dawn crested the city but had only managed three hours of sleep before a morning call from Gaby, demanding his company at breakfast, woke him up.

As he drained the last drops of his coffee and resisted the urge to yawn, Napoleon considered that perhaps his late night forays were starting to take their toll.

Gaby and Illya sat across from him at the breakfast table, seemingly unaware of Napoleon’s fatigue. Gaby looked rejuvenated and typically lovely in a Chanel cashmere twin set. She nibbled delicately on a croissant. Meanwhile, Illya sipped his second cup of coffee and ignored them both in favour of reading the newspaper.

‘Another article about this Shadow,’ Gaby observed as Illya hitched his newspaper higher, revealing a blurred black and white photograph of Napoleon in his heist costume, fleeing the Louvre.

Napoleon raised his head in interest. Illya’s eyes didn’t move from the page he was reading.

‘And front cover this time,’ Gaby continued as she raised a glass of orange juice to her glossed lips. ‘Why is he so popular? There are so many superheroes around. And this one doesn’t seem to have any powers.’

‘He is very attractive,’ Illya commented in a bored tone, his gazed fixed on the paper. ‘Or so they say. I overheard Waverly’s secretary talking about him. Half of London is in love with him.’

Napoleon resisted the urge to preen.

‘You know,’ Napoleon observed in a forced casual tone, ‘I’ve been told that I look a lot like him by those who have met him in person.’

Gaby squinted at him, her head tilted. Illya lowered his paper slightly to survey Napoleon over the top of it.

Sometimes when Illya stared at Napoleon like that, Napoleon felt as though his insides had been scorched, as if something bright and molten, like sunlight, had been poured down his throat.

Illya’s expressions were impossible to discern. He emanated hostility with ease but everything else was stashed away like treasures contained within a Chinese puzzle box.

‘I do not see it,’ Illya said definitively. Gaby hummed in agreement.

Napoleon tried not to visibly deflate. He was fully aware that it was ridiculous to feel jealous of his alter ego. But Napoleon was rarely sensible when it came to Illya Kuryakin.

Napoleon started to butter his toast when Illya looked up from his paper and leaned forward to pull the butter dish out of Napoleon’s reach. Napoleon paused with his knife poised in mid-air.

‘I want my CO2 laser back, Cowboy,’ Illya said reproachfully. Subtle affection was threaded through his tone. Napoleon battled the urge to smile like the infatuated fool he was.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Peril,’ Napoleon replied easily as he pulled the butter dish back across the table. ‘But I think you’ll find your CO2 laser in the front pocket of your coat where you left it last.’

‘Good.’

Illya’s lips curled upwards in the barest of smiles.

Illya returned to the finance section and Napoleon ate his toast, taking pleasure in the comfortable silence of the breakfast table, marked only by the soft clinking of silverware on bone china saucers.

The placid rhythm of the morning was punctured a few minutes later when Gaby emitted a gleeful cry.

‘I’ve got it!’ Gaby exclaimed as she jabbed the hand holding her croissant in Napoleon’s direction. ‘You don’t look much like Shadow but I know who you do look a little like—that American superhero. Superman!’

She settled back in her chair, evidently pleased with her deductive skills. Napoleon thought that when Gaby finally perceived whom Shadow really was she was going to wring his neck for not telling her sooner.

Napoleon sighed and poured himself another cup of coffee as Illya muttered caustically in the direction of his paper, ‘Yet another American lunatic with a cape.’


	3. Calamity in Cologne

At eleven o’clock on Christmas Eve, Napoleon found himself perched on top of a bell tower. The gothic expanse of the Cologne Cathedral stretched below Napoleon as he shivered in the snow and thought about how unnecessary acts of heroism were cutting into his vacation time. 

Gaby had stayed in Paris over the holidays to do some shopping, while Illya returned to his flat in London to play solitary chess and stare hostilely at the walls, or whatever it was that Illya did during his spare time. 

He hadn’t even bothered to ask what Napoleon was doing for Christmas. Napoleon tried to dismiss the absurd lurch of his heart at the thought that Illya didn’t bother to ask because he didn’t care. 

Napoleon was all too aware that he was pathetically lovesick. He tried not to analyse the situation too closely.

Meanwhile, Napoleon was spending his free time slowly developing frostbite in his extremities while he waited for yet another cantankerous Russian to deign to show up. 

The wind was bitter, his fingertips were numb and Napoleon’s appreciation for gothic architecture was waning by the minute. In the distance, the Rhine River glistened and Christmas revellers spilled onto the narrow streets, laughing and drunkenly hollering German Christmas carols. 

‘Why are you not wearing coat?’ 

Napoleon inclined his head in Red Peril’s direction. He hadn’t heard Red Peril’s approach but his scarlet costume was a like bonfire amid the frost. 

Overhead, the moon was luminous and full. Its pale light made Red Peril’s blond hair appear almost silver and the sharp planes of his face were reminiscent of the finest Italian marble. Napoleon pointedly ignored the flutter of his pulse.

‘Nobody layers a coat over a cape, Peril,’ Napoleon sighed. ‘Sometimes sacrifices must be made for fashion. Not that I would expect you to understand such a thing.’

Red Peril’s only concession to the weather was a pair of black leather gloves. He saw Napoleon eyeing them curiously and clarified, ‘I do not need to wear coat. My body temperature runs warmer than yours.’

Napoleon quirked an eyebrow and gave Red Peril a lewd grin. 

‘Interesting. That might come in handy later,’ Napoleon drawled. ‘Care to warm me up, Peril?’

Red Peril shook his head definitively. Napoleon tried not to be offended by his lack of enthusiasm. 

‘What have you found out?’

Napoleon huffed out a short laugh at Red Peril’s habitually brusque manner. His breath swirled from his mouth in a pale cloud and dissipated in the darkness. 

‘I compared the research from the files I stole from the Parisian police with some other information I obtained—’

‘Let me guess. This information was also “borrowed”?’ Red Peril asked with a sarcastic lilt to his voice. 

Napoleon had raided some files from Waverly’s office the previous week. He doubted that the disappearance had gone unnoticed. It was entirely possible that Waverly already knew about Napoleon’s heroic alter ego but was simply too polite to mention it.

‘Peril, I think you’ll find that involuntary lending is very useful in our line of business. Particularly when it comes to catching murderous arsonists.’ 

Red Peril raised a fair eyebrow but conceded with a wave of his hand. 

‘Continue.’

‘I have been able to trace the string of bombs to a primary source. A cult of Swiss religious extremists has been responsible for planting and detonating the explosives. I won’t bore you with the semantics of their eschatology but they consider themselves divinely appointed to help purge the world of its sin.’

Red Peril inclined his head thoughtfully, his expression calculating. 

‘The bomb you deactivated in Louvre was not set to detonate until after midnight,’ Red Peril mused, ‘which is when gallery would be virtually empty. If they are intent on ridding world of sinners then why target unoccupied art gallery? Why target art at all? This does not make sense.’

‘Why target art?’ Napoleon repeated incredulously.

‘Yes, why target art? It is pointless endeavour,’ Red Peril replied with a cold indifference that Napoleon could not help but find abhorrent. 

‘How can you be so blind, Peril?’ Napoleon asked. His tone was blatantly horrified. Red Peril’s lips twitched upwards briefly.

‘Quite simply, art imitates life,’ Napoleon argued. He could feel a familiar tide of enthusiasm wash over him, threatening to drag him under. ‘Art mimics humankind’s glories and follies, revels in its mundanity and hidden sensualities. When one looks at art, when one truly examines it, it can unleash a passion that rivals the stirrings of the divine. What religious puritan wouldn’t be afraid of the power of art and seek to destroy it?’

Napoleon abruptly realized how fervently he was speaking. He glanced out at the dark waters of the Rhine glittering coldly in the distance. An itch of unease was rising between his shoulder blades. He had the unnerving feeling that he had just exposed too much of himself to a virtual stranger, which was wholly unlike him. 

Napoleon had delivered a similarly impassioned, albeit somewhat drunken, speech on the paramount importance of art to Illya several months ago in Istanbul. Perhaps Napoleon was not as seamlessly self-contained as he liked to imagine himself to be. 

When he glanced back towards Red Peril he was staring at Napoleon with an oddly transfixed expression. 

Napoleon shifted and rubbed his gloved hands together in an attempt to restore the feeling in his fingertips. Snowflakes had settled on Red Peril’s shoulders and dusted his fair hair with ice. 

‘What did you uncover, Peril? Or have you KGB deductive skills fallen short?’

Red Peril ignored the taunt, seemingly recognising the subject change for what it was—evasion. 

‘I uncovered the same information,’ Red Peril replied briskly. ‘This group, they hide their tracks well but they are becoming sloppy and arrogant. At the moment they are operating from an abandoned milliner’s shop in Cologne. We can disband them after disabling the bomb.’ 

He scrutinized Napoleon, who was still rubbing his hands together in a futile attempt to ward off the chill that was beginning to settle into his bones.

‘Your costume is both ridiculous and impractical,’ Red Peril commented. 

‘It is very difficult to be furtive and shadow-like when I am bundled in heavy layers of clothing,’ Napoleon countered. ‘I rely on a lack of bulk to scale buildings and slip through windows. We can’t all be favoured with the natural ability to fly and a self-regulating body temperature.’

Red Peril’s features morphed, his expression abruptly remote. 

‘It is not natural. I was made, not born this way,’ he responded tersely. 

A spark of fascination kindled in the back of Napoleon’s mind. He had heard rumours of the Soviet superhero program from informants and undercover CIA agents, but it was all speculation, whispers and smoke, nothing more. The official position endorsed by the USSR was that the superheroes accepted into their program were naturally gifted. If Red Peril was being truthful then the USSR had achieved that which other nations would not dare to attempt: genetically modified superheroes. 

Red Peril was regarding Napoleon warily, watching him absorb this revelation. 

Napoleon was keenly aware of the trust Red Peril had placed in him in gifting him with such information. They had barely known each other for more than a month and Red Peril didn’t strike him as the sort to be flippant with state secrets. 

Napoleon was unable to fathom Red Peril’s motives but he was absurdly flattered.

‘I won’t say anything, if that’s what you are worried about,’ Napoleon assured him. ‘I have no reason to be loyal to America. I work for my own interests alone.’

Red Peril’s answering smile was wry.

‘I doubt that is true,’ Red Peril replied wryly. 

Napoleon opened his mouth to defend his own greed and self-interest when the sonorous clang of the nearby clock tower signalled the passing of another hour. 

‘We must go,’ Red Peril insisted as he turned to face the city, ‘I will meet you at the bottom.’

Without a backwards glance, Red Peril leapt from the slanted rooftop and plunged to the ground. He was a blazing comet streaking through the night. 

‘You could have given me a lift,’ Napoleon muttered irritably as his numb fingers grappled with the hooks and coil of rope attached to his tool belt.

He looped his rope around a sturdy looking spire and clambered over the perilously slippery rooftop, gradually lowering himself to the ground as the icy wind lashed his face. He did not need to look down to know that Red Peril was probably watching his cautious descent with amusement. 

‘Perhaps we should have met several hours or even days earlier,’ Red Peril called out. 

Napoleon pointedly ignored this remark as he landed as gracefully he could manage in the freshly fallen snow. Red Peril was smirking at him. Napoleon was dismayed by the revelation that Red Peril was somehow even more devastatingly handsome when he was smug. 

Together they delved into the shadows and traversed ice-slicked back lanes. Red Peril glided close the ground as Napoleon arched over rooftops and zigzagged between closely packed apartment blocks, the bright spool of his cable a flicker of light in the darkness. Adrenalin hammered in Napoleon’s chest. He found his gaze continually straying to the impossibly attractive sight of Red Peril hovering over freshly dispersed snow drifts, the carved muscles in his back shifting exquisitely like marble made animate. 

The frenzied laugher of excited children and the garrulous chatter of tipsy adults spilled into the night air as Napoleon and Red Peril approached the Christmas markets. 

Shoppers ambled through the rows of stalls, brightly swathed with candles and vibrantly coloured ribbons. The drifting aroma of marzipan and mulled wine mingled with the sharp, savoury tang of cheese. Festive cheer swathed the scene like the pristine blanket of snow being trampled underfoot. The sight of so many blissfully unaware market goers caused a spasm of urgency to thrum inside Napoleon’s chest. 

Napoleon darted beneath the protective cover of the looming arches that fronted the town hall. He turned to find Red Peril already behind him, brushing against his back. 

Napoleon released an unsteady exhale at Red Peril’s proximity. He could feel the strength of Red Peril’s body pressed along his side and the warmth of his breath grazing against Napoleon’s cheek. For an incendiary moment, Napoleon could have sworn that Red Peril’s gaze darted to Napoleon’s lips. 

Napoleon found himself helplessly wondering what had happened to the Red Peril of only two weeks prior, stony with glacial disdain and relentlessly scornful of Napoleon’s advances. 

Unbidden, Napoleon could not help but think of Illya—his endearingly prickly manner and the blaze of his smile, hesitant at the corners before blossoming into an reluctant grin that never failed to leave Napoleon spellbound. A familiar twinge coupled with the erratic force of his heartbeat. 

Napoleon’s situation was truly dire if we could not set aside thoughts of Illya for a single minute in order to seduce an absurdly attractive superhero. 

Napoleon sighed and took a step backwards, his back hitting the stone pillar behind him. Red Peril’s mouth twitched as though he could read Napoleon’s thoughts. 

‘Where is this milliner’s shop, Peril?’ Napoleon asked abruptly. 

Amusement warmed Red Peril’s blue eyes but his expression was otherwise grave as he replied, ‘It is close by. Follow me.’

They wended their way by foot through a maze of lanes branching out from the town hall. Snow crunched beneath their trudging footsteps and Napoleon was about to suggest they expedite their means of transport when Red Peril placed a gloved hand on Napoleon’s forearm and gestured for him to stay silent. Amid soaked cardboard boxes and frost-encrusted trashcans, Napoleon and Red Peril crouched beneath an air vent that half-heartedly sputtered steam in abbreviated bursts above their heads. 

Inside, Napoleon could distantly distinguish the tenor of raised voices arguing. 

‘What if they have already planted the bomb?’ Napoleon whispered.

Red Peril shook his head. 

‘I have sources watching shop,’ he replied. His breath swirled around his face in a white gust, mingling with Napoleon’s. ‘Informants close to group tell me they plan to plant bomb in nativity scene, beneath baby’s cradle. They will only do this close to midnight to avoid bomb being found sooner.’

The voices inside rose in pitch and the unmistakable sound of glass smashing emanated from the abandoned shop.

‘We should move now, while they’re distracted,’ Napoleon urged. He sprang up from his crouch only to be abruptly tugged back down by Red Peril, whose grasp on Napoleon’s wrist was ironclad.

‘I will go,’ Red Peril replied obstinately. ‘You stay here and keep watch.’

Napoleon attempted to pry Red Peril’s grip from his wrist but the attempt was futile. 

‘You are not even real superhero,’ Red Peril argued, his jaw set. ‘This is more than just disabling bomb in abandoned gallery.’ 

‘As touching as your concern is, Peril,’ Napoleon replied smoothly, ‘I am not your sidekick. I can handle myself.’

Napoleon matched Red Peril’s steely glare with a rather formidable one of his own and Red Peril relinquished Napoleon’s wrist with an aggravated huff. 

‘Fine. But follow me. And try not to set off any alarms,’ Red Peril growled. 

Napoleon barely had time to revel in the petulant cast of Red Peril’s face before Red Peril was on his feet and moving. 

Napoleon watched with surprising fondness as Red Peril defied convention by dispensing with the locked door and instead opted to smash a hole through the brick wall. Napoleon could not help the way his breath hitched at the outrageous and frankly unnecessary display of brute strength. 

‘Subtlety really isn’t your strong suit is it, Peril?’ Napoleon murmured as he blindly followed Red Peril through a drifting cloud of debris and plaster dust. 

When the roiling cloud of dust settled, revealing aged Singer machines and rusting treadle tables, it was apparent that the makeshift lair was empty. An unmistakable scent of damp permeated the room, fetid and strange. Striated bursts of light emanating from a nearby street lamp filtered feebly through the grimy back window. 

The room was suspended in a strained silence. 

Napoleon inclined his head towards Red Peril questioningly. Red Peril nodded towards the floorboards where the faint outline of a trap door jutted out from behind the cracked countertop. 

The floorboards groaned as Red Peril approached the trap door. He glanced up at Napoleon, his cautious gaze a wordless gesture to remain silent, before lifting the trap door to expose a shadowy pit. A roughly hewn ladder was their only means of entry or exit. 

Red Peril descended the ladder and the hair on the nape of Napoleon’s neck prickled. The pressure of Red Peril’s weight on the old ladder resulted in a creak that made Napoleon wince, the sound no doubt announcing Red Peril’s presence to anyone who might lie in wait at the bottom. 

Napoleon startled as an abrupt symphony of agonised groans and the macabre snap of bones sliced through the cold air. His nerves were uncharacteristically frayed with tension. He found himself sagging with a jolt of pure relief when Red Peril’s clipped baritone called up from the dark pit.

‘I have disabled threat, Shadow.’

The instinctive force of Napoleon’s reaction surprised him. The creeping spectre of alarm grazed his spine. 

‘Well done, Peril,’ Napoleon replied, admiration fortifying his voice. ‘That must be a record. How much property damage have you caused?’

There was a pause.

‘A minimal amount. Mostly minimal.’

Napoleon felt a smile start to flicker against his lips. He climbed down the ladder and drew in a breath as his eyes adjusted to the weak light.

‘You’re certainly stalwart in your efficiency, Peril.’

The bodies of their assailants were neatly piled on the floor. Napoleon assumed that Red Peril had systematically snapped their necks, as he could detect no traces of blood in the dim light filtering through the trap door opening. It was a neat dispatching, quick and relatively painless—an exercise in clinical brutality.

Napoleon’s gaze swept over the space, noting the stone floor and the walls suffused with damp. A noxious scented mould permeated the room. Disintegrating bolts of fabric were strewn across the floor and wooden crates were upturned amongst the sudden chaos. Wide wooden pillars supported the ceiling, which appeared worryingly prone to collapse. 

It was evident why their target had chosen the space in the face of Red Peril’s destructive entrance. Any superhero with powers of inhuman strength would have to restrict their movements, lest they bring the entire building down with the clumsy swipe of a fist. It was far from a safe haven, but served the purpose of a snare nonetheless. 

‘I have something for you.’

Napoleon returned his attention to Red Peril who held the activated bomb in his outstretched hands. He gently placed the bomb at Napoleon’s feet.

Napoleon crouched on the ground and started extracting tools from his belt. He was unnervingly aware of the attentiveness in Red Peril’s gaze as he examined the interior workings of the device. In the feeble light it was difficult to distinguish the active wires from the extraneous connecting cables. Napoleon pulled a torch from his belt and flicked the switch.

‘Hold this for me, will you?’ Napoleon asked Red Peril. Red Peril silently accepted the torch. 

The wide arc of the torchlight swept across the room, glancing over Red Peril’s broad shoulders and momentarily probing the dense vale of shadows. A flicker of movement shifted behind the pillars and Napoleon’s heart shuddered. A dual concoction of terror and a feral burst of rage suffused his body as he leapt to his feet and threw himself in Red Peril’s path. 

For decades, any protective instinct that Napoleon may have possessed lay dormant. But now it morphed into something sentient and wild, spreading through his chest like a barbed vine, suffocating any remaining logic or self-preservation with overwhelming force. 

Adrenaline ignited his veins and he dimly registered the pain of a bullet lodging itself in his shoulder, where it would have otherwise hit Red Peril’s heart. A growl of muted fury rumbled in Red Peril’s chest. Napoleon could feel the vibration run along his spine but he was distracted by the strength of Red Peril’s arms wrapped around his waist, holding Napoleon upright, and the sudden dart of movement in his peripheral vision as the shooter dived for the discarded bomb.

A muted gasp of horror rippled from Red Peril’s throat. Napoleon hazily registered being pushed to the ground and cloaked with a heavy weight before the world disintegrated in a furious blaze of fire.


	4. Unmasked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession time!

Napoleon felt strangely disconnected from his own body. The pain his shoulder pierced sharply but everything else had numbed to a dull, insidious ache that seeped into his marrow. 

With effort, he tried to open his eyes. It took several attempts for Napoleon to pry his eyelids open to a thin slit. The stars were much closer than they normally were. If Napoleon so desired he would be able to pilfer the moon and hoard it in the folds of his cape. 

These were not rational thoughts. The part of his brain that refused to relinquish lucidity, the bundle of nerves and synapses that had survived the brutality of war and the anguish of torture, helpfully suggested that he might be concussed.

His head lolled back suddenly and he was unable to supress a groan. A hand quickly cradled the back of his neck, holding his head upright with gentle but firm pressure. 

‘Try not to move too much, Cowboy. You are safe now.’

Strong arms held Napoleon aloft and he felt warm and secure despite the brumal wind that whipped his cape into a frenzy of movement. The distant lights of Cologne diminished beneath them. A thin line of smoke trailed upwards, following their ascent. 

Napoleon felt as weightless and ebullient as a drifting cloud. He allowed his eyes to close. 

*   
When Napoleon woke he registered three things in quick succession. 

Firstly, everything ached. It was not the fiery agony of a freshly inflicted wound, but rather the drowsy diluted throbbing of injuries temporarily numbed by medication. 

His body felt leaden but he no longer had to strain for lucidity. 

Secondly, he was alive— a rather miraculous observation considering there was no logical reason he should have survived such a close brush with a detonated explosive.

And finally, Napoleon deduced that he was in a KGB safe house of unknown location. 

He was lying in bed, cocooned in soft woollen blankets. He was surprisingly comfortable considering the otherwise Spartan layout of the room, which also contained a rickety nightstand, a wooden chair, and a single window covered by plain calico curtains. 

Napoleon was safe. Contentment stirred warm and saccharine in his stomach, which could only mean he was in the presence of…

‘You are awake.’

Napoleon lolled his head in the direction of the deep voice. His mind performed a strange mental contortion as he struggled with the cognitive dissonance of expecting Illya to be sitting in Red Peril’s place by Napoleon’s side, of somehow expecting them both to be tending to him at once. 

Napoleon sighed and Red Peril immediately rose to his feet, his giant frame hunched over Napoleon’s body in readiness.

‘What do you need? How is your head? Is your shoulder giving you pain?’ 

Napoleon recalled hazy flashes of Red Peril efficiently dressing his wounds, helping him hobble to the bathroom, and plying him with medication. His mind grappled with the memory of Red Peril using a damp cloth to tenderly wipe the patina of blood, sweat, and grime from Napoleon’s skin.

Red Peril must have been tending to Napoleon over the course of several days. 

Napoleon tried to speak, but his voice scraped and died at the back of his throat. 

Red Peril picked up a glass of water from the nightstand and silently handed it to him. Napoleon drank deeply, his hand shaking slightly, as Red Peril watched him with unnerving focus. He handed the glass back to Red Peril. 

‘Thank you,’ Napoleon rasped, his voice hoarse from pain and disuse, ‘for everything.’ 

Red Peril’s face was grim in the face of Napoleon’s gratitude.

‘You should not be thanking me, Shadow,’ Red Peril muttered darkly, ‘I should not have allowed you to follow me. You do not have necessary superpowers to protect yourself. You were shot trying to—’

Red Peril broke off in a harsh, discordant string of Russian cursing. He curled his hands into tight fists to conceal their tremor. 

‘I’ve survived fine so far, Peril,’ Napoleon protested with a slight frown. His remaining light-headedness made it difficult to keep his tone purposefully nonchalant. ‘Pretty as I am, I am not a damsel in distress.’

Napoleon waved a hand in the direction of his bandaged body. ‘Despite current appearances to the contrary,’ he amended. 

Red Peril glanced at Napoleon’s prone form with a dubious glare. It dissipated instantly when Napoleon shifted in bed and winced at the movement.

‘What can I get you?’ he demanded. ‘Stop fidgeting. You should try to stay still.’

Napoleon glanced down at his body, which had been stripped to the waist in order to tend to his bullet wound. He brushed a lock of lank hair from his forehead and subtly felt for his mask. His identity was secure. 

Napoleon felt fresh appreciation flare in his chest at the respect Red Peril had shown. He had given Napoleon the gift of free choice. Napoleon felt the strange pull to unveil himself, to offer himself up in the hope that he would not be found wanting under Red Peril’s glacial gaze. 

But common sense warred with this impulse, further restrained by the damning, utterly futile knowledge that Napoleon was hopelessly in love with someone else. 

Napoleon prodded at the dressing covering the bullet wound in his shoulder. It was sore but clearly healing in response to Red Peril’s attentive care. Red Peril gently pried Napoleon’s hand away from his shoulder and kept it restrained by his side. 

Napoleon glanced down at their joined hands and raised an eyebrow. Red Peril quickly retracted his hand.

‘You did a good job with the dressing,’ Napoleon observed quietly. He was enthralled by the delicate shade of pink blooming on Red Peril’s cheeks. ‘I was quite lucky it wasn’t a dumdum bullet. If it had shattered on impact then even your considerable healing skills would have been for naught, Peril.’

Red Peril inhaled a brittle breath and Napoleon devoured the sight of his clenched fists. Napoleon was greedy. He knew that he could not have this but he wanted it all the same. 

Napoleon sighed and sank back against the pillows. His vision blurred and the walls shifted. He should have known that the burst of lucidity would be short lived. 

‘What do you want?’ Red Peril asked, his voice raw. 

‘Everything all at once, Peril,’ Napoleon drawled as he closed his eyes. He was beginning to feel drowsy again. He gave a careless wave of his hand as he spoke. ‘World peace, the love and physical affections of a bad-tempered Russian giant, a large glass of scotch with some ice—I want all of these things all at once. Not necessarily in that order.’ 

Red Peril was pointedly silent. Napoleon opened his eyes to see Red Peril watching him with an inscrutable expression, his mouth a flat line and his fingers curled tightly around the bedpost. 

‘I will get you some ice,’ Red Peril muttered rigidly. He abruptly turned and left the bedroom.

‘Only if it’s attached to the scotch,’ Napoleon called out drowsily, his former clarity rapidly abandoning him. 

Napoleon listened to the indistinct sounds of Red Peril moving through the safe house, presumably rummaging through the kitchen. A virtual stranger was watching over Napoleon. Yet the survival instincts that should have been triggered by this realisation, such as distrust and a creeping sense of wariness, failed to ignite. 

Quite simply, Napoleon trusted Red Peril. In fact, he rather suspected that he owed his life to him. 

This thought quickly dispersed as Napoleon’s breathing fell into a steady rhythm and his eyes drifted closed. Unconsciousness quickly enveloped him.

*

When Napoleon opened his eyes again a pale light was straining through the gap in the hideous curtains. Red Peril was placing a tray of food onto the nightstand. Faint purple lingered under his eyes and his fair hair was sticking up slightly at the back, as though he had spent the entire night hunched in the rickety chair besides Napoleon’s bed, guarding him as he slept. 

The wan sunlight caused the golden hairs on Red Peril’s forearms to glint. For the first time Napoleon realised that Red Peril was wearing something other than his costume. His crimson mask remained affixed, but he was wearing plain shirtsleeves and ordinary grey trousers. Napoleon pushed back the urge to laugh at the discordant image but was unable to supress the hum of amusement at the back of his throat. 

Red Peril glanced over at Napoleon and gave him one of those rare smiles that transformed his entire face. 

‘Do I amuse you?’

Napoleon swiped the cup of coffee from the breakfast tray and smirked at Red Peril.

‘Endlessly, Peril’ he replied. 

Red Peril’s answering smile flickered briefly across his face. The bed frame creaked as he sat on the mattress and leaned forward to pull the cup of coffee from Napoleon’s hands and place it back on the nightstand. He then began to carefully peel back the dressing on Napoleon’s bullet wound.

‘As much as I appreciate you playing Florence Nightingale to my wounded solider, Peril,’ Napoleon said lightly as he tried to supress the tell tale riot of his heartbeat, ‘I unfortunately can’t stay secluded here with you forever. I’m going to need to leave soon.’ He swept his eyes across the room absently. ‘Speaking of which, where are we exactly?’

‘KGB safe house,’ Red Peril answered as he started to clean the wound using a collection of medical supplies piled on the nightstand.

Napoleon rolled his eyes ungraciously, which was as much a sign as any that he was on his way to full recovery.

‘I assumed as much, Peril. I meant geographically speaking.’

‘Düsseldorf,’ Red Peril replied succinctly as he smoothed a fresh dressing over the wound. 

Red Peril placed the unused dressing back on the nightstand and leaned back to examine Napoleon. He frowned at the bruising that stamped the skin along Napoleon’s rib cage. 

Although Napoleon’s ribs ached significantly less than they were, the bruises remained a gruesome plum shade, tinged at the edges with a sickly yellow hue. 

‘They look worse than they are,’ Napoleon said, reaching down his chest to prod at them in demonstration. 

Red Peril frowned and pulled Napoleon’s hands away. He kept one of Napoleon’s hands tightly in his grasp and brushed his thumb absentmindedly over the crescendo of Napoleon’s pulse. The heat of Red Peril’s skin seeped into Napoleon’s hand. 

‘You have not coughed up blood but does it hurt to breathe?’ Red Peril asked, as his free hand gently traced the bruises on Napoleon’s chest. 

Breathing suddenly became something that required concentration.

‘I don’t have cracked ribs, Peril. I know what they feel like.’

Red Peril frowned at this and his grip on Napoleon’s hand tightened slightly, a wonderfully protective gesture that made Napoleon’s breathing falter.

‘I’m disappointed by the realisation that you don’t also possess X-ray vision to add to your absurd list of heroic abilities,’ Napoleon teased. ‘Are there any others you’ve yet to reveal? Perhaps telekinesis or invisibility, the ability to meld the elements to your will or, God forbid, mind reading?’

Red Peril huffed a laugh and shook his head.

‘No hidden abilities, Shadow,’ Red Peril answered softly. His expression turned speculative. ‘But mind reading is highly overrated as superpower. Humans do not often think in cohesive monologues. Much of human thought is blend of images, random words, or puzzle of memories. It is difficult superpower to wield.’ He gave a dismissive shrug. ‘Another KGB agent possesses this power, among others. She says it is mostly useless in fieldwork.’

Napoleon forcefully prevented his features from morphing into an expression of surprise. He had no doubt that the CIA would possibly implode with rage at the thought of telepathic Soviet agents. He derived immense pleasure from the thought. But there was a great deal of logic in Red Peril’s explanation.

‘So mind reading would be much like watching a foreign film without subtitles?’ Napoleon suggested. ‘In the sense that it would be possible to vaguely understand the outline of the narrative but impossible to fully grasp it without context?’

‘Yes,’ Red Peril replied, ‘exactly.’ 

‘What have you demonstrated so far then?’ Napoleon mused. ‘Extraordinary powers of flight and impressive displays of super strength. I mean, you are virtually indestructible—’

A flash of realisation rippled through Napoleon. He fell back into his pillows with a groan. 

‘Oh God, you’re indestructible aren’t you?’ Napoleon demanded as he raised his free hand to cover his face in mortified despair. ‘How else could you have survived the blast? I risked my life to save an indestructible superhero. That was both the noblest and stupidest thing I have ever done.’

‘Yes,’ Red Peril agreed tersely. Napoleon bristled at the lack of contradiction. ‘It is my fault for allowing you to come with me, knowing you could not defend yourself as I can. It is my fault you are hurt.’

Napoleon lowered his hand slowly to absorb Red Peril’s expression ablaze with self-recrimination. 

Napoleon patted Red Peril’s hand somewhat awkwardly. 

‘You didn’t know how I was going to act,’ Napoleon said in a carefully pacifying tone. ‘Peril, I didn’t even know how I was going to act. Throwing myself in the path of a speeding bullet is very unlike me,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘I can assure you that I am rarely so selfless.’

Napoleon privately thought that the worrisome self-destructive urge that flared in his rib cage when in the presence of surly Russian giants was something that required dissection, and possible dismantling, at a later date. 

For now he allowed his fingers to gently brush over the back of Red Peril’s hand, which remained clasping Napoleon’s own. They were a tangle of tenderness and hostility. 

‘But you must admit that I wasn’t entirely hopeless,’ Napoleon argued with a burgeoning itch of pride, ‘I may not be able to shatter buildings with my bare fists or plummet from the sky unscathed, but I can accomplish things in other ways. I uncovered the identities of the responsible parties. I also found and solved the cipher. I am not an entirely hopeless superhero.’

Raw affection suffused Red Peril’s features. Red Peril glanced down at their entwined hands, his large frame stilled as if in deliberation.

‘No,’ Red Peril corrected, his tone slightly wavering, ‘you are terrible superhero. But maybe you are not such a terrible spy, Cowboy.’

Napoleon watched with a mixture of awe and incredulous horror as Red Peril gently extracted his hand from Napoleon’s and raised it to his face. He peeled off his mask. 

Illya, Illya Illya. 

Napoleon’s pulse jackhammered. The edges of his emotions were knife-sharp with panic.

‘Well,’ Napoleon said carefully, ‘this was woefully unexpected.’

His stomach burned molten hot. The things he had said to Red Peril, to Illya, the flirting and the tremendously unsubtle remarks about love, all of it made Napoleon recoil. Shame festered inside him.

Christ, it was just a mask. How could he have not seen it? The glacial blue eyes, the flaxen hair, the gruff and prickly manners, and Napoleon’s instinctive urge to protect him no matter the personal cost— how could Napoleon not have seen it?

‘How long have you known?’ Napoleon asked quietly.

‘Since incident at Louvre,’ Illya answered carefully, his gaze fixed on the wallpaper above Napoleon’s head. ‘You uncovered cipher so quickly when no one else thought to look. You have strategic mind, Cowboy.’ He paused. ‘You are good at…unravelling things. This is when I knew.’ Illya’s lips curved into a warm smile. ‘Even if I had not known then, I would have known in Cologne when you spoke of art’s purpose. You light up when you speak of art. It is like everything else is stripped away.’

Napoleon felt fresh mortification wash over him upon hearing this assessment. 

He had known at the time that he was speaking too freely. Yet Red Peril’s—or Illya’s presence, he reminded himself firmly— had induced him to shed his meticulously cultivated composure. 

‘I feel like such a fool,’ Napoleon said slowly. ‘This is an entirely unprecedented sensation.’ 

He resisted the childish urge to pull the covers up above his head and pretend this had never happened. But that was impossible with his hand still cradled in Illya’s grip and Illya’s gaze was pinning him in place, silently absorbing Napoleon’s reactions. 

‘Christ, what you must think of me,’ Napoleon exclaimed in horror. ‘The things I said…’

‘No,’ Illya said firmly. ‘I am glad you said them.’ 

Napoleon glanced down at the bedspread, where Illya’s fingers tapped frenetically against the material, his hand shaking ever so slightly. Illya inhaled a sharp breath. 

‘I feel the same,’ Illya said quietly.

Napoleon’s heart was expanding rapidly inside his ribcage. His feelings for Illya were so expansive, so hopelessly infinite that it seemed impossible that Illya could feel the same. 

Napoleon felt a strange kind of giddy nausea bubble in his chest, as if he were on the precipice of falling from a great height. He needed clarification. 

‘What exactly do you mean, Peril?’

Illya’s gaze was resolute when it met Napoleon’s. Illya raised a now steady hand to Napoleon jaw, his fingers gently brushing over a cut on Napoleon’s chin and cradling the curve of his face.

‘I mean that I love you too, Cowboy.’

Napoleon exhaled unsteadily. Illya had effectively obliterated his composure, but Napoleon couldn’t find it within himself to care. 

‘Then I think it’s about time you kissed me, Peril,’ Napoleon replied solemnly.

Illya lifted Napoleon’s mask. He dropped it on the bed beside them. 

Illya raised his hand once more to brush his fingers against the newly exposed skin along Napoleon’s cheekbones. He reverently traced the lower curve of Napoleon’s lips.

Napoleon’s breathing was tremulous. He found himself transfixed by the flush on Illya’s cheeks and the glistening curve of his eyelashes in the sunlight. Illya lowered his head to press his lips to Napoleon’s. 

It was a light brush of lips but Napoleon felt the shiver of sensation resonate throughout his whole body. His skin tingled where Illya’s hands were stroking his face, gentle and worshipful. Napoleon could feel a flush of heat spread through his torso and pool in his groin. Napoleon raised a hand and threaded it in Illya’s hair as he licked along the parted seam of Illya’s lips. Illya groaned brokenly before gently pulling back from Napoleon’s grasp.

‘You are still injured, Cowboy,’ Illya murmured, his eyes still fixed on Napoleon’s lips. His expression was undeniably hungry and Napoleon revelled in it. 

‘Would you believe that I feel remarkably better? If anything, my health might decline if you stop.’

‘Nice try, Cowboy,’ Illya said with an amused smile. 

Illya’s breathing was slightly ragged, his pupils were dilated, and his lips were a delectable shade of dark pink. Napoleon longed to bite them. Napoleon catalogued all of these changes in Illya like an artist might survey their masterpiece, for Illya was nothing if not exquisite. 

‘You’re a menace, Peril,’ Napoleon grumbled as he sank down into the pillows. But he imagined that the delighted smile that he could feel spreading across his face somewhat thwarted the effect. 

Illya’s answering smile was alluringly predatory as he leaned forward and allowed his breath to brush across Napoleon’s lips. Napoleon emitted a stifled gasp, which he was quite frankly embarrassed by, as Illya’s teeth gently scraped along Napoleon’s jaw, followed by the scalding swipe of his tongue. 

‘You need your strength back, Cowboy,’ Illya breathed against Napoleon’s skin. ‘I promise it will be worth the wait.’

Illya pulled away as Napoleon struggled to regulate his breathing. Illya appeared smugly satisfied by his ability to decimate Napoleon’s equanimity. He leaned forward and pressed an infuriatingly chaste kiss to Napoleon’s cheek and then left the room to go and make Napoleon some tea.

Napoleon found himself staring dazedly at the door, feeling overwhelmed and overjoyed by the strange, miraculous turn of events. Then he glanced down at the discarded masks on the bed an indulged himself in a lovesick, deliriously exultant smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe my thanks to the lovely Antiquity for allowing me to incorporate her insightful musings on mind reading into this fic. Where would I be without her wisdom?


	5. Finale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay! Here is the final chapter. Fair warning, this chapter contains some explicit content. I hope you've enjoyed the story, as ridiculous and fanciful as it is.

What followed was both the most wonderful and agonising week of Napoleon’s life.

Illya seemed determined to treat Napoleon as though he were made of spun glass, still convinced that he was somehow culpable for Napoleon’s injuries. They played chess, read books, and spent long evenings curled up by the fireside, simply talking. In many ways, just having these moments with Illya was beyond anything that Napoleon had dared to hope for.

But Napoleon still ached to unspool Illya’s restraint with a desperation that made his skin feel hot and tight, as though it were an ill fit. Love had morphed him into a madman. He felt positively feverish with longing. But every time he tried to do more than steal a kiss from Illya, Illya would patiently imprison Napoleon’s wandering hands in his own and press a sadistically innocent kiss to Napoleon’s lips.

‘Just one more week, Cowboy,’ Illya said firmly, with a surprisingly playful expression. ‘I should have known you would have terrible patience.’

‘Are you actively trying to kill me, Peril?’ Napoleon groaned as Illya extracted himself from Napoleon’s embrace. ‘Or is that just an unhappy side-effect?’

Illya frowned.

‘No, I am very much trying not to kill you. That is my point. You are injured and I am much stronger than you.’

‘As always, I appreciate your trepidation on my behalf, but I am feeling almost entirely better,’ Napoleon contended.

This was not strictly true. Bullet wounds tend to take quite some time to heal and Napoleon’s shoulder was still rather sore and his ribs ached when he moved too suddenly. Napoleon assumed Illya realised this as he was entirely too observant. But Napoleon’s libido was still very much intact, for Christ’s sake, and he intended to put it to good use.

‘I know you want it too,’ Napoleon said sullenly, with an indelicate wave of his hand towards Illya’s groin.

Napoleon couldn’t believe he was being so gauche. He was clearly becoming desperate. Illya’s cheeks burned and Napoleon fantasised about tracing the flush with his tongue.

Illya’s eyes trailed down the length of Napoleon’s body appraisingly. When his gaze met Napoleon’s, Illya’s pupils were blown wide.

‘Of course,’ Illya said succinctly.

Napoleon was devastated.

‘God, you’re really not helping, Peril,’ Napoleon muttered. ‘Look,’ he continued imploringly, ‘I can promise you that I have entirely healed. Some might even call my rapid recovery miraculous. I imagine the general populace will be inspired to construct churches in my honour, in glory of the miraculous event of my physical resurrection.’

Illya smiled and captured Napoleon’s hand in his own. He started idly tracing the lines of Napoleon’s palm with distracting delicacy.

‘Such blasphemy, Cowboy,’ Illya murmured wryly.

‘Aren’t you a staunch atheist?’ Napoleon asked with the imperious arch of an eyebrow.

Illya dismissed the point with the casual shrug of a shoulder. He raised Napoleon’s wrist to his face so he could press his lips to the quickening flutter of Napoleon’s pulse. Napoleon’s argument dwindled in his throat at the feeling of Illya’s lips against delicate skin. He inhaled sharply at the teasing graze of teeth.

‘Your method of distraction is rather puzzling, Peril,’ Napoleon commented, ‘especially considering your arguments in favour of chastity.’

Illya released Napoleon’s wrist with an apologetic smile. Sincere though Illya’s motives undoubtedly were, Napoleon suspected that Illya was deriving a strange form of sadistic pleasure in pushing Napoleon to the brink of his self-control.

‘Sorry, Cowboy,’ Illya murmured, blatant amusement lingering in his expression. ‘I am sure you will live.’

Napoleon did not share Illya’s certainty.

Which was why Illya had pushed Napoleon to the brink of distraction. If Illya were insistent on coddling Napoleon then it was apparent that Napoleon was just going to have to take matters into his own hands, so to speak.

The solution was clear. Napoleon was simply going to have to seduce Illya.

Such an undertaking should not have been nearly so daunting as it was. After all, the many facets of Napoleon’s personas—art thief, international agent, and superhero—all required that he cultivate a suave and seductive air in order to achieve his goals. In Napoleon’s experience, sex could be used as leverage, a weapon, or incentive.

But Illya was different. Something about him stripped Napoleon of his artifice. Were he attempting to seduce anyone else, Napoleon would contrive a tantalising speech and procure a bottle of champagne to help smooth the process. Napoleon could turn sex into a production and foreplay into an elaborate opening act.

However, Illya required more consideration. Illya was a study in contradictions. His prized possessions were a battered watch, a portable chess set, and an AK-47 sniper rifle. He had an absurdly brilliant mind for strategy but was rendered fragile by the volatility of his own emotions. Illya was complex, like all great art should be.

Napoleon pondered the matter at great length. He decided that his best chances lay with being forthright.

  
Napoleon waited until dusk fell and shadows crept into the corners of the bedroom.

  
Every night Illya tended to the fireplace, stoking the flames patiently, and then retreated to sleep on the fold out lounge in the small sitting room.

Napoleon showered and dried himself off. Instead of changing into a fresh set of clothes, he simply wrapped his towel around his waist and stepped back out into the bedroom.

The fire was blazing in the grate and Illya was sitting on the bed, waiting for Napoleon to emerge. The firelight gilded the sharp planes of Illya’s face. He was idly flicking through the Chekov anthology that Napoleon had unearthed from the mostly empty bookshelves.

The floorboards creaked under Napoleon’s weight and Illya glanced up, his eyes widening and cheeks flushing as he absorbed Napoleon’s state of undress. Illya quickly composed his features into a carefully blank expression and Napoleon felt his bravado begin to deflate. Perhaps he had misjudged the situation? He reflexively licked his lower lip and felt triumph roar in his chest when Illya’s gaze followed the movement.

‘Did you forget your clothes, Cowboy?’ Illya’s voice was unsteady.

Napoleon leaned against the doorframe nonchalantly. It was difficult to maintain the steady rhythm of his breathing while Illya was staring at Napoleon in a way that he could only describe as starved.

‘No, Peril. I’ve decided that it’s time we forgo clothes. And caution, for that matter.’ Napoleon paused before admitting, ‘I want you, Illya. And I think we have already established that I am very much yours.’

Napoleon would have once dismissed such words as trite sentimentality. It was apparent that Illya was the exception to every rule.

Illya’s expression was inscrutable. He inhaled sharply and closed his eyes momentarily. He then placed the book on the nightstand carefully and stood. As Illya approached, Napoleon was unnervingly aware of the ragged rhythm of his own heartbeat. There was something sinuous in Illya’s movements alongside a charged quiver in the air that somehow made Napoleon feel like prey.

Illya stood only a foot away from Napoleon. The room was warm but Napoleon supressed a shiver. Illya’s hands trembled.

At this point Napoleon had imagined he would make a suave quip, unintentionally recycling tired flirtations from past dalliances. Illya deserved better but Napoleon had assumed that such insincerity was ingrained and he would be unable to stop himself from cheapening the moment. But for once, miraculously, Napoleon was struck mute.

Illya swayed towards Napoleon. The quick, hot flutter of his breath brushed against Napoleon’s cheek. Illya’s eyes trailed from Napoleon’s lips to his throat and chest, as though he could not decide what to fixate upon with so much newly revealed skin. There was something enchantingly hazy about Illya, as though his self-control was quickly immolating before Napoleon’s eyes.

An errant drop of water fell from Napoleon’s still damp hair and trickled down his cheek. Illya’s gaze tracked the movement avidly and Napoleon emitted a broken groan as Illya bent his head and sucked the water droplet from the hollow of Napoleon’s throat. Napoleon could feel the hard length of Illya pressing against his hip. He fisted a hand in Illya’s hair and brought their mouths together. Illya’s hands bracketed either side of Napoleon’s head, caging him against the wall as though Napoleon were in danger of escaping his grasp.

Illya kissed Napoleon with such raw urgency that it made Napoleon think of survival, as though kissing Napoleon were akin to breathing, as if it were something that Illya could sustain himself upon for the rest of their lives.

Napoleon’s knees weakened and his heart quivered. He felt terribly vulnerable.

‘Fuck,’ Napoleon gasped against Illya’s mouth. ‘What are you doing to me, Peril?’

Illya pulled away and examined Napoleon solemnly.

‘You must tell me if I hurt you,’ Illya murmured. He pressed a soft kiss to the corner of Napoleon’s mouth.

Napoleon barely had time to respond with an affirmative grunt before Illya dropped to his knees, pulled the towel away, and took Napoleon into his mouth.

‘Oh my God.’

Illya hands bracketed Napoleon’s thighs, keeping him pressed up against the wall even as Napoleon’s strength wavered. Heat ignited in Napoleon’s solar plexus and spread through his limbs. Illya gazed up at Napoleon from beneath his lashes and Napoleon allowed his head to hit the wall as an agonised moan tore through his throat. Napoleon’s focus narrowed to the gloriously obscene sounds of Illya’s mouth and the frenzied desperation of his own gasps. He was fighting a losing battle with his stamina.

Then Illya flicked his wrist and did something miraculous with his tongue that caused wildfire to flash to life in Napoleon’s veins. Napoleon fisted a hand in Illya’s hair and unravelled completely.

Illya was immediately on his feet. He cupped a hand around the back of Napoleon’s neck and roughly tugged him forward, pulling him into an incendiary kiss. Their teeth clashed and Napoleon inclined his head so their mouths slotted together perfectly. Napoleon’s hands scrabbled over the muscled expanse of Illya’s back and fisted in his shirt. The brush of fabric against his own naked body was unexpectedly arousing. Napoleon parted his lips and Illya licked inside his mouth ravenously.

Napoleon could taste himself on Illya’s tongue.

A spike of carnal possessiveness speared through his chest at the thought. Napoleon had never felt this way before. The longing to claim and be claimed usually faded for Napoleon after the initial thrill of orgasm. But despite already coming, desire continued to shroud Napoleon’s body with the dizzying miasma of a fever.

Illya nipped Napoleon’s lower lip and pulled back. His pupils were wide and a red flush suffused his cheeks and trailed down his throat. Napoleon raised a hand to trace the flush over Illya’s pulse and down the sharp line of his clavicle, so delicate despite Illya’s restrained power.

‘Are you trying to ruin me for anyone else, Peril?’ Napoleon demanded hoarsely, his breath hitching traitorously. ‘Because I think you’ve succeeded.’

Napoleon could not decipher the look in Illya’s eyes, but something about Illya’s expression—unguarded and hypnotised— reminded Napoleon of the first time he had felt completely struck by art.

Illya pressed a reverent kiss of Napoleon’s mouth and whispered against his parted lips, ‘Yes, I want to ruin you for others, Cowboy. I think you are it for me.’

Napoleon’s chest ached. He thought the tenderness in Illya’s voice might kill him. The solemnity of the moment was threatening to overwhelm Napoleon when Illya curled his arms around Napoleon’s waist and suddenly hoisted him into the air. Napoleon laughed in surprise and twined his arms and legs around Illya as Illya carried him over to the bed.

‘I think now is time to mention that I have more stamina than average human,’ Illya murmured into Napoleon’s ear as he gently lowered Napoleon to the bed, careful to avoid brushing the dressing on Napoleon’s chest.

‘Lucky me,’ Napoleon replied with a licentious grin. ‘Feel free to debauch me as many times as you like, Peril. I’m more than willing.’

Illya lay down beside Napoleon, pulling Napoleon into his arms. Napoleon quickly started to unbutton Illya’s shirt and push the sleeves off his shoulders. Illya’s breath became uneven as Napoleon pressed his hands along the planes of Illya’s chest, dragging his fingers to Illya’s abdominal muscles and the coarse golden trail of hair that crept past Illya’s waistband.

‘You’re far too overdressed for the occasion, Peril,’ Napoleon said fervently as he reached down and palmed Illya through his trousers. Illya emitted a strangled groan, his eyes fluttering closed and his lips parting. Napoleon could not resist kissing him and sliding his tongue into Illya’s mouth.

They kissed slowly and Napoleon traced his fingers along the line of Illya’s waistband. Illya pulled back. He hurriedly unbuttoned his trousers and pulled them down alongside his boxers.

Napoleon stopped and marvelled at the unveiled majesty of Illya’s aroused body. Illya was hard, flushed and exquisite. Napoleon had never wanted anything so much in his life. He scraped his teeth along Illya’s jaw and revelled in the unrestrained moan that passed from Illya’s lips.

‘What do you want, Peril?’ Napoleon asked breathlessly. ‘Tell me what you want.’

Illya closed his eyes as Napoleon traced idle circles on the hot skin of Illya’s inner thigh. Illya moaned as Napoleon allowed the back of his hand to brush against him.

‘I want to be inside you,’ Illya responded lowly, his gaze fixed on the teasing movement of Napoleon’s hand.

Napoleon felt as though the breath had been stripped from his lungs all at once.

‘Okay, yes. Yes,’ Napoleon repeated shakily.

Illya curled a hand around Napoleon’s hipbone and leaned forward to press a line of bruising kisses against Napoleon’s neck, licking at salty traces of sweat and dragging his teeth along Napoleon’s jaw.

Napoleon felt a bright jolt of desire careen through his body. He hadn’t felt so undone since he was a goddamned teenager, ineptly fumbling with the other boys in the tense darkness of trenches and army barracks, when every breath was laced with lust and a precarious kind of self-awakening.

Napoleon was hard again. He pressed Illya back into the pillows. He went willingly, propping himself up on his elbows as he watched Napoleon lean forward and rummage through the nightstand. Napoleon stifled a gasp as Illya ran a gentle hand over Napoleon’s back, brushing against the back of Napoleon’s thighs. Napoleon unearthed the jar of cream that he had optimistically stashed away earlier.

Napoleon straddled Illya. He hovered over Illya’s hips and pressed a hand to Illya’s chest to remain steady as he began to prepare himself.

The sight caused Illya to tilt his head back with a moan that sounded almost anguished. A spark of heady excitement kindled in Napoleon’s stomach.

There was nothing he craved more that the sight of Illya coming undone and knowing that it was his doing.

When Napoleon was ready he lifted his hips and lowered himself onto Illya. Illya’s hands grasped Napoleon’s hips tightly, the muscles in his arms quivering with the strain of remaining still as Napoleon adjusted to the incomparable sensation of Illya inside him. Illya’s breathing was wrecked and his eyes were heavy-lidded as he gazed up at Napoleon with an awestruck expression. Illya bit down on his lower lip and Napoleon reached out to brush his thumb against Illya’s mouth, freeing the lower lip from the snare of Illya’s teeth. Illya caught Napoleon’s outstretched hand and pressed a distracted kiss into his palm.

Napoleon moved his hips experimentally and he and Illya gasped in unison. Together they settled into a delectable, languorous rhythm that made Napoleon feel as though they had somehow discovered something new, because sex was wonderful but it had never before made Napoleon feel as if his insides were molten and he were on the verge of becoming entirely lost in another person. Napoleon suspected that he might become something of an addict.

Illya reached out and stroked Napoleon firmly and Napoleon cried out as he came apart for the second time that night. Illya’s grip on Napoleon’s hips tightened as he came, Napoleon’s name ripped from his throat as if in benediction.

There was no sight more mesmerising than watching Illya come undone.

Napoleon inhaled sharply as he pulled himself off Illya, feeling a ripple of pleasure tinged with oversensitivity circuit through his body. He settled contentedly into Illya’s arms.

‘You have definitely ruined me for all others, Peril,’ Napoleon said softly into the crook of Illya’s neck. Illya leaned back, a pleased on his lips.

‘Good,’ he replied. He ducked his head to kiss Napoleon languidly.

‘And I see what you mean about stamina. If this is how I go then I have no regrets,’ Napoleon said teasingly.

Illya hummed in agreement and traced idle circles along Napoleon’s spine. Napoleon closed his eyes and allowed himself the luxury of basking in his good fortune.

*

Epilogue

Six months later:

Napoleon and Illya sat beside each other, Illya’s hand resting furtively on Napoleon’s thigh under the breakfast table as Gaby flicked through the newspaper she had pinched from Illya’s possession.

Napoleon sipped his coffee carefully, trying to keep his breathing steady as Illya’s hand inched higher up Napoleon’s thigh. It had already been a delightful morning, what with the very agreeable interlude with Illya in the shower earlier. The remaining day promised to be just as thrilling.

The trio had the day off and he and Gaby planned to drag Illya along to do some sightseeing in Vienna. Gaby wanted to visit the zoo at Schönbrunn Palace and then at noon they planned to wander through the vibrant array of food stalls in the Naschmarkt, sampling Austrian pastries and imported cheeses. Napoleon then planned to entice Gaby and Illya into spending the afternoon in the Kunsthistorisches Museum with him. He planned to revisit later that night as Shadow and he needed to refresh his memory of the layout of the artworks and the museum’s security system.

Napoleon’s ventures as Shadow continued to be foiled by his own acts of heroism, such as rescuing kidnapped babies and unveiling assassination plots, but he was thankfully being shot at less frequently since Illya had taken it upon himself to act as Napoleon’s personal bodyguard on heists. Napoleon had a significantly higher success rate with stealing artwork thanks to this arrangement, plus he was additionally graced with the gift of seeing Illya clothed in red spandex on the regular basis.

Illya seemed to find equal delight in unmasking (and unclothing) Napoleon at the end of each heist so it really was a mutually beneficial arrangement for them both.

Napoleon cut up his eggs as he mentally retraced his memory of the Kunsthistorisches Museum’s security vaults and considered which tools he would need to swap in his belt.

It was their last day in Vienna before they returned to New York so it was possible that Gaby might complain about the trip to museum and refuse to accompany them. But Napoleon knew that Illya would indulge him. He usually did.

The thought caused an absurdly fond smile to lift at the corners of Napoleon’s mouth and he hastily took another sip of his coffee to conceal it.

If only they had more time in Vienna. Napoleon would have loved the opportunity to visit the Belvedere Palace Museum again. He hadn’t been back since shortly after the war. And he been meaning to add another Klimt to his collection, he thought wistfully.

Gaby flipped to the front section of her newspaper and put aside the stock market predictions she had just finished reading.

‘Shadow’s cult of sycophants appears to be dwindling,’ Gaby observed.

‘What makes you say that?’ Napoleon asked, somewhat defensively.

‘Well,’ Gaby said as she took a sip of her tea, ‘Illya has been gracing the cover page for the past week. Just wait until the press realises you two have formed a…united front.’

Napoleon and Illya glanced up sharply in unison. Illya removed his hand from Napoleon’s thigh.

‘It will be media chaos,’ Gaby mused. ‘Actually, I’m rather looking forward to it.’

Illya looked aghast. Napoleon almost choked on his coffee.

‘What?’ Napoleon spluttered as Illya gruffly demanded, ‘How long have you known?’

‘Surely you didn’t think that mindreading powers were exclusive to KGB agents, Illya?’ Gaby asked sweetly. Her long-lashed doe eyes peered at them both from behind the newspaper. She was beguiling and terrifying all at once.

Napoleon and Illya exchanged a wary glance.

‘I have known almost since the beginning,’ Gaby elaborated with a quietly triumphant smile. ‘I realised sooner than Illya, certainly, and well before you, Napoleon. But you boys are often quite slow on the uptake so don’t be too hard on yourselves.’

Napoleon was rarely lost for words but he somehow found himself grasping for a response and failing to find it.

‘And congratulations, by the way,’ Gaby remarked as a genuinely pleased smile lit up her delicate features. ‘I was getting so sick of watching you pine for each other.’

She paused and her delighted expression contorted into a grimace.

‘Although now I have to try and block out your mental images,’ she pondered, ‘which might actually be worse than the pining. I have seen things I truly did not want to see.’ She shot an accusatory glance at Illya. ‘And your thoughts are particularly loud, Illya.’

‘Really?’ Napoleon asked delightedly as Illya’s cheeks turned a vibrant shade of pink. ‘I’m flattered, Peril.’

The flush began to trace down Illya’s throat. Napoleon was disappointed they were in public. He longed to kiss Illya or possibly continue where they left off in the shower that morning.

‘Stop it,’ Gaby said sharply. She tapped her temple with manicured fingers. ‘I’ve seen too much already.’

Napoleon attempted to appear sheepish and no doubt failed.

‘But now that we’re all in the know,’ Gaby continued determinedly, her countenance abruptly grave, ‘I have a proposal. Your heists are getting better but you boys need serious help. Which is where I come in. What do you say to splitting your profits three ways?’

Napoleon glanced at Illya who simply shrugged. Illya didn’t particularly care about the heists. He tagged along to protect Napoleon and foil supervillains. But Illya’s expression softened as he observed Napoleon’s enthusiasm. He nodded slightly.

Napoleon was euphoric at the prospect of their trio undertaking audacious art heists. He would lay claim to exquisite masterpieces and Gaby would skilfully execute their plans, all the while Illya saved the day through begrudgingly performing daring acts of heroism. Plus he imagined that Gaby probably had a superhero costume that would rival Napoleon’s own in terms of stylistic flair.

Napoleon laced his fingers with Illya’s on top of the breakfast table. Joy expanded in his chest like a slow rising run.

‘I think we can come to an arrangement,’ Napoleon said with a languid smile. ‘How do you feel about the Met?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Cue heist music* 
> 
> If you made it to the end of this fic, thank you for humouring me and suspending your disbelief by pretending that an eye mask acts as a suitable disguise, aka Zorro style.


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